


Retaliate

by atsukunaru



Category: Bakuman (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Fever, Gen, Schmoop, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 03:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17800406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atsukunaru/pseuds/atsukunaru
Summary: A cold catches Mashiro (and, by extension, Takagi) a little off-guard.





	Retaliate

**Author's Note:**

> takagi taking care of mashiro?? takagi taking care of mashiro. as if this poor kid doesn’t have enough problems as it is.
> 
> ambiguous timeline because i’m indecisive. 
> 
> thanks for reading!

With the assistants off for the day, the studio feels strangely quiet, filled only by the scratching of Mashiro’s pen against paper.

It’s nice, in its own way. For as much as Takagi thrives amidst the noise and chaos, he’s dedicated today entirely to research. In fact, he’s nearly halfway through an interesting (although perhaps tangential) article on competitive origami folding when he’s abruptly jolted back to the present by a _thump_ and a loud snort.

A quick glance up reveals a dark ink blotch gracing Mashiro’s cheek—enough to indicate that the other boy had quite literally fallen asleep (and woken up) on top of his work.

“Tired, Saikou?” Takagi asks, casual grin fading as he takes in the scene before him. On a regular day, he would be tempted to laugh—to jokingly flick his partner on the forehead and make some quip about overworking himself. But there’s a large smudge on the page from Mashiro’s split-second nap, which is definitely no laughing matter. Unless he’s somehow able to salvage it, it will have to be redone.

More pressing, however, is the glassy, unfocused look on Mashiro’s face, bringing a clenched knot of worry to the pit of Takagi’s stomach almost immediately.

“Saiko,” he stands, cautiously approaching the desk as if dealing with a wounded animal, “everything alright?”

Mashiro nods—slowly, stiffly—and drags his thousand-yard stare down to the stain as if seeing it for the first time. His lips form a little “oh,” but no sound comes out. Instead, alarmingly, Takagi sees a sudden sheen to his eyes that had most certainly not been there a moment ago. “I…I ruined—”

“ _Saiko_ ,” Takagi hardly spares a glance at the ink smear, swiftly closing the distance between them and resting a hand on Mashiro’s back. He can feel a damp heat through his partner’s shirt, and he mentally curses himself for missing this earlier. “You didn’t, okay? We can redo one page. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

A miserable sniff is the only thing preceding the sudden overflow of bitter tears, falling against the paper with a _drip, drip_ —ear-splittingly loud in the otherwise silent room.

Changing tactics, Takagi pulls Mashiro away from the desk, smoothing out his crumpled posture and gently kneading into his tense shoulders. “C’mon, let’s sit on the couch for a second.” Receiving no reply, he loops his arm through Mashiro’s, pulling him up onto wobbly legs that collapse as soon as they reach the sofa. Mashiro is quick to accept the unspoken invitation to lean into Takagi’s side, cheek smushed into the soft fabric of his friend’s t-shirt.

“M’sorry,” Mashiro mumbles, shivering as Takagi brushes his bangs away from his face.

Exactly which aspect of the situation he’s apologizing for, Takagi isn’t sure, but it’s not like it really makes a difference. “It’s okay,” he soothes, pressing a cool palm to Mashiro’s forehead, “You’ve been working hard, and you’re obviously not feeling good. You deserve a break.”

Mashiro shakes his head, sniffling roughly.

“You do,” Takagi insists. “I noticed even yesterday that you seemed sorta run-down. I should’ve said something then.

“I’m okay,” Mashiro disagrees, eyes falling shut seemingly without his permission, “just tired.”

“You’re running a temperature.” Takagi wishes they’d kept a better-stocked first aid kit—or at least a thermometer and some fever reducers. Not that it would probably matter to Mashiro, who is slowly becoming more and more of a dead weight against his side. “Here, lie down,” he tugs on the hem of the artist’s sweatshirt encouragingly.

“N-no, I don’t—” Mashiro struggles against his own body’s demands, but the combination of overwork and fever is, evidently, too much for him to overcome. Pliable and exhausted, he allows Takagi to maneuver him until his head lands in the writer’s lap. He lays there, half-curled on his side, as another sharp chill shakes his thin frame.

Takagi twists around, snagging a blanket off the back of the couch and draping it over his partner. “Relax for a while. I’ll wake you in like…an hour.”

Mashiro starts to nod, then stops short. “What’re _you_ gonna do for an hour?”

“Pillow duty.”

Mashiro snorts despite himself. “Don’t you have anything _better_ to do?”

“This is the most important thing I can possibly think of,” he answers honestly.

“That’s stupid,” Mashiro argues—but his eyes are closed before Takagi can begin to retaliate.


End file.
